


Adjustments

by ghostmittens



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, drabble narrative perspective noted with initial at the beginning of each chapter, more will be added as apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-12 11:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7933099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmittens/pseuds/ghostmittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles about the Junkers' early days at Overwatch, freshly hired. Most from Junkrat's perspective, but some from Roadhog as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. J: Bread

The breeze was the only good thing about running; otherwise, the feeling of his heart pattering in his chest was his only companion in the dry heat as he darted down the alleys, his prize tucked under what served as an arm, the other grabbing a pole and banking a turn up a makeshift fire escape. He was faster than they were, he was sure of it, and if not, he was definitely more nimble, and that would be what saved his skin. Panting slightly, he hunkered down on the roof, out of sight, and suppressed a cough. Pulse pounding in his ears, legs beginning to ache, he waited.

Sure enough, the pair came lumbering through with a full head of steam, knocking over bins and tearing away debris, searching. He couldn’t help but let a gap-toothed grin stretch across his maw: they never thought to look up. Never ever.

Below, the man snarled, looking about. That little brat! How the fuck a one-armed kid managed it every fucking day was infuriating. A growl rose in his throat as he slammed a fist into a trash can lid, searing into a bellow: “YOU GODDAMNED JUNK RAT!”

This outburst was replied to with a lazy salute from the boy (given with a hook he’d rigged himself from a coat hanger and a chunk of wood strapped to his stump) safely from his latest hiding spot. Proudly, he took the first bite of his hard-won prize: fresh bread.

 

A **knock** : _~~three~~ no four_ sharp raps against _metal_ , like **_gunfire_** , ~~_quick quick quick now_~~

 

Eyes open immediately, on full alert, he grabbed his frag launcher and cocked it. Taking aim at the door from beneath his bunk, his breath was shallow and steady as he locked eyes with his would-be assailant as they opened the door. “Move another inch and you’ll be kissin’ ‘y gram _g'noight_ , mate.” he sneered, tone hollow and blunt.

The woman stared back, balking slightly, and raised her hands. “Mr Fawkes..?”

Ah? _Ah._ Right. This was the new base. That was the doctor.

“…Sorry.”

He disarmed his weapon, lowering it. They hadn’t met much, beyond the previous day’s welcome tour and routine check-up, but she hadn’t done any wrong. He wondered how it must have looked from her end, that kind of greeting.

Offering a sheepish grin, he ran his hand through his hair, self-soothing. _Calm down, mate. She ain’t here for ya gizzards._

“Thought you was someone else.”

Angela smiled thinly, brow lightly furrowing in a blend of concern and apprehension. “Whom?”

“Uh…well, don’t matter, s'not you.” he chuckled, glancing away for a moment before looking back to her. “Needed somethin’?”

“Ah...yes. Breakfast is beginning soon, and I thought I had best let you know.”

“Breakfast..?” he blinked. Logically, he knew that a ritzy joint like an Overwatch facility would have food enough for multiple daily meals, but it still seemed fairly bizarre. “Roight, roight! Okay, uh, thanks! Be out in a tick!”

She smiled, closing the door carefully, and could be heard heading down the hallway. Once the sound of her heels had left the scope of his ears, he scooted out of his nest of blankets to begin his day.

 

Prosthetics on, straps tight, boot on and laced, he made his way off to breakfast, pausing only to bang a rhythm of knocks against Roadhog’s door, a grunt all the reply he needed as he carried on toward his latest meal. His arrival at the dining hall was met with a blessedly empty room: he didn't much care for dining with strangers: team mates or not, strangers they all were, for now.

Plate loaded with all sorts of things, his bodyguard nearby and likewise encumbered, Jamison took a seat to sample the toast.

“Whaddaya think?” rumbled Roadhog, loosing his mask enough to allow a fork.

Jamie chewed a moment, then swallowed, taking a sip of tea.

“Not the best bread oi eva had, but it’s in the runnin’ for second.”


	2. J: Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never just a quick rinse.

It wasn’t that he hated water. 

He liked water plenty. Water was life. Water was currency, wealth, comfort, survival, _precious_. 

What this was, to him, was _waste_. 

 

He turned off the shower stream, having gotten himself good and doused, and began with the soaps. Use as little water as possible. Just enough to appease his new team mates, so that they’d stop complaining a while. Trying to explain was useless, as they were the sort to take long rinses. They wouldn’t understand.  
  


Grimacing, he lifted his sound arm, squeezing his wash cloth in hopes that the soap’s runoff would be sufficient for his forearm. Shampoo was a ridiculous idea, but it’d been thrust upon him. Sighing, he settled for maneuvering the bottle beneath a thigh and squeezing a bit, hoping that he hadn’t spilled much: it’d make getting out that much harder with a slick floor.  
  


Lathered, he turned back on the stream, eyes shut tight against the water as he hurriedly scrubbed off the soap. The chemical properties of such concoctions were close to explosive: a cold comfort, but letting it sit could well be caustic, his mind told him. He’d have to read the labels to be certain, but regardless, the longer he lingered the more water went down the drain to god knows where, instead of past someone’s lips where it belonged. 

  
Rinsed, he shut off the shower with a snort, shaking his head to rid any excess, and hoisted himself up to transfer out of the shower stall and into the dressing area. Nudity was not a matter of shame: back home, being nude simply meant you didn’t have clothes that hadn’t been repurposed. Besides that, modesty would always take a backseat to practical affairs, and what mattered was getting to the bench without slipping. With a practiced turn as he held onto the wall, he flopped into his seat with a sigh and began towelling off.  
  


Cripes. The process took _ages_. Not only was bathing a waste of water, it was a waste of time as well. Transferring, drying off, getting all the nooks and crannies while keeping his balance, and _then_ the task of getting on his arm, clothes, then leg. He was strong, certainly, practiced too, but hot water loosened his muscles, and made his arm feel even more weary than it should. Were he in the Outback, he didn’t doubt he’d have had to rig extra tripwires before he even started, just to get this all done in relative peace.  
  


A waste of _time_. A waste of _energy_. A waste of _water_ , all for what?

He didn’t care to look in the mirror as he plodded out, skin prickling in the chill of air conditioning.

 

*****

 

“Ahhh, lookit you!” chirped Tracer, all smiles. “Don’t you feel better now, love?” 

 

He did not. He felt a bit cold, and remarkably naked. “I guess.” he shrugged, sipping a hot cup of tea. 

 

“Aw, there’s nothing to be shy about now! You look pretty cute under all that dust, ha ha!”  
  


Dust kept the sun off. Mud kept you cool in the heat as well. He could anticipate the sunburn already.  
  


“And to think, all these freckles! All it took was a little bit of a wash; bet you’ll be popular today!”  
  


He grinned, chuckling. “Yeah, maybe. A little water can sure make all the difference.”


	3. J: Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could have at least left him an old magazine.

His toes twitched in the end of his boot, fingers drumming on his inner thigh.  
  
She’d said not to move, and he’d promised to be on his best behavior: medics were a shrewd bunch to begin with, and one wrong word meant they dug in the needle extra hard, one dirty look won you a harder bill to pay. This one was clean and shiny and looked like an angel, and had a stick that (as far as he could tell) was fueled by magic: that final prospect made her nothing short of terrifying. Hence, he wasn’t moving, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

The butcher paper crinkled beneath him as he fidgeted atop the examination table, glancing about for some kind of entertainment. He liked having his hands and eyes occupied: it kept the rest of his mind focused, cleared in a fashion, so that he didn’t cue into every little noise, every little motion around him. Settling on a chart about gastrointestinal health, he soured considerably at the complexity of the language: if these things were meant to be some sort of decoration, why couldn’t they be more direct? Who did it benefit? Since the doctor already knew what dyspepsia was, how the hell was he supposed to parse out “stomach ache” from that mess?

Nevermind. Charts were terrible and boring and useless anyhow.

His fingers drummed against the edge of the exam table.

He’d never had a real medical exam, or at least not one so extensive as this one had been. The first one was boring enough, but then she said that she wanted him washed before continuing: something about extraneous factors, something about dirt interrupting her readings, made it unsafe? Whatever that all meant, she was all-too eager to continue once he’d had a good scrub-over, and _oh_ what _fun_ she’d had.

Resentfully, he rubbed the inside of his arm: what had she drawn all that blood for, he wondered, and why so much? Did this happen with everyone? Every time? No doctor he’d ever seen needed all of that kind of fuss: they rinsed whatever wasn’t right and patched it and sometimes you got some pills if you were really a whiner about the whole thing.

Roadhog said that she helped his knees and back stop aching all the time. Some kinda miracle, maybe, or somethin’ shifty as hell besides. Old fat guys ached when they moved, that was what was natural. Combat kept ol’ Roadhog limber. Something about him not aching…it was _good_ , but it didn’t seem _right_.

He reminded himself to stop picking at the frame of the table, and instead pointed his attention to the cabinets: the structure, the weak points, the things that he understood in this room. He did not know why he’d been asked to piss into a cup and then wank one out into another, but he did have a strong grasp on structural composition, and the comfort of comprehension was soothing in the maddening silence. He wasn’t only all about explosions, just…not one for the quiet.

Maybe in another life he could have been some kind of fancy architect, or a carpenter. That brought about a snicker: him, respectable? Hilarious. Especially if he wound up in Vishkar: would he have to wear the same leggings and visors? Kind of a risqué cut, wasn’t it?

“Mr Fawkes?”

Starting, he sat up straight in an instant, eyes wide and heart in his throat. She was back, clean as a whistle, pale as a ghost, smiling like she’d never learned how to frown. She was distressing to him on a primal level-foreign, unknown, daunting in a way he could not articulate- like staring at an impossibly tall church, spiraling into the sky, and knowing that the stained glass staring down at you was only meant to _look_ benevolent.

“I have the results of your physical diagnostics. I apologize for the wait.”

He hated waiting, and she knew it.  
He grinned lazily, leaning back, propped on his hands atop the table.

“S'fine, doc. What’s it they say, haste lays waste?”

She giggled thinly, the sound of her laugh like distant bells. "I'm not sure that's _quite_ the expression, but yes, that is the idea. Let's discuss your results..."

 


End file.
